


Fireflies at Midnight

by micah_n10 (micah)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Family, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-23
Updated: 2009-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micah/pseuds/micah_n10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every family has their traditions. Iruka, Kakashi and their son are no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireflies at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kita_the_spaz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kita_the_spaz).
  * Inspired by [Mission's Gift](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1221) by kita_the_spaz. 



Kakashi crouched low amongst the overgrown reeds, both eyes surveying the open field before him, the tomoes of his sharingan spinning slowly, memorizing each subtle shift in shadow. His breath wisped and curled, dispersing as it struck the chilly night air. He paused, surveillance forgotten as he idly reached up to scratch his exposed chin. He _really_ had to shave...

A shift to his right had his mind snapping back into focus—of course, he was _still_ hunting.

The suspicious patch of grass trembled again, and Kakashi's eyes narrowed. He shuffled from foot to foot, carefully maneuvering himself forward until there were but mere inches between him and his quarry. Thirty more seconds... he'd wait thirty more seconds and then...

There was a third quake, smaller, though no less obvious and Kakashi tensed, the four fingers silently drumming against his thigh stilling. Seemed like he would need to proceed sooner than expected, his mark having obviously learnt the value of constant movement—the dangers of harbouring in any one sport for an extended period of time. A given, he supposed, when Konoha's fabled Copy-Ninja was the one in pursuit.

Catching the faint, barely audible intake of breath, Kakashi concealed his chakra and waited.

His prey broke cover, bounding over small earthen mounds and scrabbling hastily through the thicker brushes of muddied grass and vines. Within seconds Kakashi was on the scent, arms raising as he swooped down and scooped a squirming, giggling Shimo into the air.

"You're going to be late." He mockingly accused his son, swinging them both around with the momentum of his attack.

The jovial bundle squalled, little legs kicking out against the cool summer-night air. "Hurry, papa. Hurry!"

Kakashi wrapped an arm around Shimo's waist and tucked the young boy firmly against his side before turning back. His feet tingled against the grass, each long stride cold and wet with the occasional squelch of mire between his toes. His lips quirked, and with equally cold fingers he rubbed the dirt from Shimo's feet—his little toes almost icicles themselves.

"Cold?" Kakashi asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nuh-uh." Shimo shook his head avidly, hands fisting his father's collar. "'M fine."

"Sure you are." Kakashi chuckled and released his hold. Shimo slipped, his feet once again touching the frosty grass as he gave a pitched hiss.

"Saa, cold!" The little squirt hopped from one foot to the other before latching onto his father's slacks and complaining. "Papa...!"

"Go put your shoes on, midget." Kakashi replied, internally debating whether to laugh outright or pick his son up again. He settled for nudging Shimo towards the base of an incline, where they'd set out a few items and a blanket earlier that evening.

"Papa, no..." Shimo whined, stumbling as he was pushed forward.

With an unseen roll of his eyes, Kakashi placed a hand firmly on his sons head, stopping the boy before he could founder forward and tracked mud all over their clean spread. He knelt and tugged the hem of his shirt free, using it to dust over the pads of Shimo's feet and between his toes thoroughly.

Shimo gave a little one-legged hop, his balance faltering, and fell back. He quickly used his newfound position to kick his father's hands away, then crossed his arms with a defiant huff. "I don't wanna."

"Shimo..." Kakashi admonished, slipping his mask beneath his chin. With both arms resting akimbo on either thigh, he raised a brow and gave his son a look that clearly forbad any arguments. He really didn't need Iruka coming home to find he'd gotten their son sick—again. Once was plenty enough.

Shimo's eyes narrowed, disobedience radiating from the darkening chestnut slits. His hands balled up, fists clenching and unclenching in a manner strongly reminiscent of his dad. The small boy was certainly doing Iruka proud, Kakashi mused, even his chakra emitted minute 'malcontent' tendrils of emotion.

"Maa... fine, fine." Kakashi gave in with a lax wave. "No shoes. But if you fall ill, I'm sending you to uncle Gai's for the week."

"Papa...!" Shimo gasped, all rebellious intentions wavering. Instead, he pouted. "No fair."

Kakashi hummed—it wasn't, but it worked—and canted slightly to the left so that when he fell, he sprawled out over the blanket. "That only works on your dad." He added, eyeing Shimo's pout through his bangs.

"Baa-chan says—"

"Let's leave your _baa-chan_ out of this." Kakashi interrupted, watching the boys pout intensify.

"But baa-chan—"

"Baa-chan lies," Kakashi said in a low growl, bracing himself seconds before pushing up and sweeping his son into his lap. "Your papa would _never_ fall prey to a simple pout. I've taken down mightier foe with just a pinkie." He poked Shimo's ribs, making the boy squirm and giggle.

"Nuh-uh. Ah-haha... papa! Baa-chan says—"

"You're supposed to listen to your papa, not that old ha—"

"I'm telling dad you called baa-chan bad names!" Shimo thrust forward an accusatory finger, then dropped it in a shrill cry of laughter when his father poked him again.

"Traitor...!" Kakashi gasped, tickling his son. "Give up now, brat."

Shimo squealed, striking out ineffectively with his arms and legs, his already cold and flushed cheeks darkening with exhilaration. "Never!"

"Now." Kakashi demanded, giving another poke and tickle. "Give up?"

"Ninya never give up!"

Kakashi laughed, his eyes arching with great amusement at Shimo's statement. His son had been spending _far_ too much time with a certain blond nii-chan, if he was starting to quote the teen like that.

Sitting up a little straighter, he gave Shimo a speculative glance down the bridge of his nose, one hand tapping his chin. "It's a stalemate, then." Kakashi finally announced, watching the wheels in his son's mind begin to turn as he tried to discern exactly _what_ a 'stalemate' was.

Shimo gave him a guarded nod, and questioned. "Truke...?"

"Truke...?" Kakashi repeated, brow arching at the mispronunciation—Shimo's second in as many minutes. He'd been told by both Tsunade-sama and his husband that it was to be expected; a child with Shimo's intelligence was often more focused on exploring the world around them, than holding prolonged conversations and discovering pronunciation—though once they did start, it would be nigh impossible to stop them. He feared the day _his_ son turned into a walking, talking clone of Naruto.

"Truke." Shimo replied with a resolute nod, regaining his father's attention.

"Aa. _Truce. _" Kakashi corrected, tapping Shimo's nose playfully.

"Maa..." Shimo huffed, mimicking his father's tone as he turned himself around to face the open field below their camp site. "...s'what I said." He pouted.

"Sure it was." Kakashi hummed, and leaned back. Using one hand to keep himself propped up, he tweaked his sons ear with the other.

Shimo gave an undignified squeak and lurched himself backwards in a defensive head-butt. "Was!" He insisted with every ounce of childish tenacity he could muster, then ruined it all by giggling.

"Brat." Kakashi grunted, his hand smoothing over Shimo's shock of untamed silver hair before giving it a quick ruffle.

"Am not." Shimo groused, then yawned. "...time yet, papa?"

Kakashi turned his gaze from his son to the darkened sky above. "Almost." He replied, blunt nails gently dragging along Shimo's scalp, massaging. "Buru..." he called, dropping his hand as Shimo quickly shot up and scuffled forward.

His son's arms reached out, hands waving excitedly as the large black mass ambled towards them—a knapsack hanging from its jowls. Coal black eyes blinked lazily down at them both, the ninken flopping down just out of Shimo's reach.

"How many this year, Shimo-kun?" Kakashi asked in a bid to distract his son while reaching over to scratch behind Buru's ear. For a moment Buru leaned into the gesture, then he shifted, nudging the knapsack closer.

"Three!" Shimo rocked back, thrusting two pudgy little fingers into the air. Kakashi took the hand in his own and wiggled a third stubby digit free. "Maa... I knew that." Shimo puffed out his chest, nose crinkling.

"Sure you did." Kakashi grinned, leaning over to tweak his son's ear again. Shimo squeaked and thumped his father's head in retaliation. "Ow," Kakashi pulled away. "My son is so violent..." he sighed, amusement evident by his tone, and snagged the bag Buru had dropped.

"Like dad." Shimo giggled, resting back against the curve of his father's torso.

"Aa." Kakashi snorted and unhooked a clasp to rifle through the knapsack. He pushed aside Shimo's spare clothes, shoes and a drinking tumbler, along with a spare weapons pouch, a case of senbon and two scrolls, before his fingers brushed over the smooth cold surface of glass. Carefully, he removed the jar.

It was slightly stained from years of use and had blue fabric wrapped around the top, a green rubber band keeping the material in place, and the word '_marmalade_' scrawled down its side in Kakashi's own chicken scratch penmanship—within seconds Shimo snatched the jar free.

His smile slipped somewhat as he held it out, tapping lightly against the glass confines before hugging it close to his chest.

"Shimo-kun?" Kakashi pushed forward and tucked his hands beneath Shimo's arms. With a quick lift he had his son turned side-on in his lap. "Shimo...?" Kakashi repeated.

"Ano," Shimo sniffled, rubbing his nose with his sleeve. "I wish dad was here too, papa."

"I know, brat." Kakashi sighed and cocooned Shimo in his arms, tucking his chin over the boys unruly tuft of hair. "Me too."

Shimo sniffled again, his fingers flexing around the glass jar. "S'not fair."

"Sometimes it's not fair, no." Kakashi pulled back, turning Shimo's face up so he could look into his son's eyes. "But we're shinobi. It's our duty and honour to do as our Hokage requests. And yes, sometimes being a shinobi means missing out on things that are important to us, like special days, but it also means we're protecting those things, so there _can_ be special days. Do you understand what I'm saying, Shimo-kun?"

"I... yes." Shimo replied hesitantly.

Kakashi frowned. Iruka was much better at these types of discussions. "And you know Tsunade-sama would never have sent your dad on a mission, if it wasn't really important, don't you?"

"...um..."

"Maa, it's true." Kakashi rubbed small soothing circles down the curve of Shimo's spine. "Baa-chan knows today is your special day, but we have to remember she's also the Hokage, and sometimes that means making tough decisions." He brought his free hand up to wipe at a chubby dirt and tear stained cheek.

"Like sending dad on a mission...?" Shimo mumbled questioningly against the material lid of his jar.

"Like sending your dad on a mission, yes." Kakashi agreed.

"'Cause he's a teacher?" Shimo asked, and sat himself a little straighter. Scratching his cheek he glanced up, curiously waiting.

"Yes." Kakashi answered, unable and unwilling to go any further into his lover's mission details. Technically it wasn't a lie, Iruka had been chosen for his teaching skills—among other things. And, though Kakashi truly believed in every word he'd just told his son... at the time it hadn't stopped him from storming Tsunade's office and demanding to know just _what the hell _she thought she was doing.

Shimo shifted in his grasp, pulling far enough away so that Kakashi had to let him go.

Kakashi watched silently as his son stared down at the jar between his hands, almost missing the whispered, "'Cause he's the best-est teacher in Fire Country?" and the note of awe in that still so very young voice.

"Of course." Kakashi answered, not at all worried about his opinion being biased—it was, and everyone knew it. But if Iruka wasn't the best, he was certainly the most passionate.

Shimo solemnly nodded, and Kakashi was left to wonder if he'd just inadvertently imparted some kind of wisdom. Before he came to a conclusion though, a sniffling little nose was dragged down the front of his shirt, followed by an apologetic giggle. "Sorry, papa."

"Meh. You've done worse, brat." Kakashi ruffled Shimo's hair again.

"Not a brat!" Shimo protested for the nth time, sticking out his tongue.

"Brattiest brat of all the brats," Kakashi teased, reaching out and tweaking Shimo's ear.

Shimo wrapped his hand around two of his father fingers, giving them a small tug as he stared defiantly up into mismatched eyes. "Nuh-uh! Dad said... that.." his words faltered.

"Shimo-kun..." Kakashi took Shimo's tightly gripped hand into his own, gaze momentarily turning towards the midnight sky before continuing. "Shimo-kun, there is no other place your dad would rather be, than here with you. You know that, right?" He asked, pulling his son into a tight embrace. "Shimo...?"

"I..." Shimo stalled, tucking himself comfortably against his father's chest before giving a hesitant nod. "...still not fair." He murmured and shifted the jar, holding it beneath a stream of moonlight. "Is it time yet, papa?"

Kakashi peered through the distorted glass to the landscape beyond, and nodded. "It is." He answered and easily picked Shimo up, placing him on his feet. "Need any help?"

"Nuh-uh..." Shimo shook his head, fingers already working the green rubber band free. It broke with an audible snap, followed closely by Shimo's excited squeal, before arching high into the air and disappearing amongst the grass. "See!" Shimo grinned, hand quickly clasping over the top.

Rising to his knees, Kakashi placed his hand firmly over Shimo's. "Ready?" He asked, giving a quick reassuring squeeze.

"Ready." Shimo confirmed with a single over-exaggerated nod.

"One..." Kakashi whispered, subconsciously taking a deep breath along with his son.

"Two..." they each released their breaths in turn.

"Two-and-a-half..." Kakashi teased, getting himself justly nudged in the ribs by a bony elbow. With a chuckle he carefully removed his hand from above Shimo's, leaving only his son's stout little fingers and the faded material as cover.

There was a long, silent pause. "_Three! _ "

Shimo yanked back the blue cloth as fast as he could, and with all his three-year-old might, tossed the jar's contents into the air. "Papa...!"

"Happy birthday, Shimo-kun." Kakashi grinned, and kissed his son's temple.

Both remained silent afterwards, watching three luminescent specks dance within the ebony of a moonlit silver sky. Shimo giggled, pointing out every little fleeting glow as they slowly begun drifting towards the ground—hovering low over Buru's head.

Surprisingly haughty for a dog his size, the large ninken bayed and snapped at the little insects before hefting himself up and turning around. With an indignant grunt, Buru flopped back down a mere two steps away.

Kakashi tugged playfully at the hem of his son's shirt, gaining his attention. "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you, papa." Shimo yawned, arms stretching high into the air before his entire body collapsed back against his father's chest. He barely noticed the way they both tipped, steadied by Kakashi's quick reflexes, and lazily reached up with a hand to trace the gaps between each glistering firefly.

"Love you too, dad..." Shimo whispered, hand falling back to his side, eyes drifting shut. "Papa..."

Threading fingers through Shimo's hair, Kakashi hummed. "It's alright, Shimo-kun. Sleep, I'll watch over you." Within seconds his son's breathing evened out, his small body curling against Kakashi's as he unconsciously sought out more warmth.

Kakashi continued staring out at the field below, observing as hundreds of more fireflies met up in the dewy early morning grass, dancing and playing together like tiny wisps of light. He kissed the top of Shimo's head, more grateful than he could ever say—for his son, for his husband, for this small family tradition—and whispered.

"Happy birthday, son."

 

\- - -

 

Uuhei stepped from the small grassy path her master and the convoy of emissaries had been travelling on for the better part of the night. They'd finally stopped a few minutes ago for a short break. She sat back on her haunches, dropping a bundled canvas bag to the ground. "Your pack, sensei."

"Thank you, Uuhei." Iruka smiled, unsteadily kneeling beside the ninken.

"Your knee—"

"—is fine." Iruka waved off her concerns. "I'll have the med-nins take a look when we get back to Konoha."

"I can smell—"

"_Shit. _ " Iruka's pained hiss drowned her out, not even his years of training able to school the grimace that flitted across his features as his knee made contact with the uneven ground. "It's a little bruised and swollen, I know, Uuhei. But there isn't much I can do in ten minutes that I haven't done already."

Uuhei cocked her head to the right, both ears raised and alert. "I was about to point out your wrist, sensei. It smells infected." Her left ear twitched. "The whelp is becoming restless _again. _ He's… Troublesome," she growled.

"The youngest envoy?" Iruka asked, pulling his canvas bag closer as he unravelled the cord that now held it together. "He hasn't broken into the sake again, has he?" If it was a choice between a second ambush, or that teenager getting his hands on more sake... well, Iruka wasn't so sure he _wouldn't_ choose the ambush.

"No, he hasn't." Uuhei's ears lowered. "Your wrist."

"I know. Later…" Iruka hummed, using his good hand to push aside ration bars, a first aid box, scrolls and a spare roll of bandages. His fingers closed around the rim of his drinking canister. "Got it." He beamed, pulling his hand back.

Uuhei let out a small whine and rolled her eyes. "You and the boss are more alike than you think, sensei."

"Next thing you know, I'll be slouching and reading porn." Iruka quipped. "How much longer?"

"Soon." Uuhei rose carefully, aiding the chuunin-sensei as he hooked an arm around her torso and hefted himself up.

Iruka wobbled with the first step, then, working out several kinks, took another, more steady, step. Slowly, the pair walked away from the group until they reached the edge of the clearing. "Uuhei..." he whispered.

Uuhei moved to his side, two pert ears belying her calm posture. "Ready, sensei?"

"Just say when." Iruka confirmed, slowly unscrewing the cap off his canister. He glanced down, watching his canine companions nose twitch as she scented the subtle differences in air temperature—something he'd learnt only weeks ago, his husband could also do.

"Soon..."

Iruka dropped the lid to the ground, and cupped the top of his canister with his injured hand.

"_Now. _ " Uuhei barked, tail wagging, bouncing up on her hind-legs.

Iruka tossed the contents of his drinking canister into the air, watching three small spectres of light tumble out and drift into the gentle night breeze. They flickered, little licks of luminescent flame disappearing amid the slender strands of grass.

"Happy birthday, pup." Uuhei lowered herself back to all fours, her alert blue eyes watching the insects wavering away.

Iruka's eyes lingered on the field of hidden fireflies for what seemed like hours. Slowly, he pulled himself away, breath hitching as he turned back towards the convoy of emissaries, Uuhei by his side. With one last glance towards the darkened skies, he returned to his mission.

_ "Happy birthday, Shimo-kun. We'll be home soon." _


End file.
